


Bullet through the brain, I'm right as rain.

by infinity_on_low



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Platonic-ish?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinity_on_low/pseuds/infinity_on_low
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suddenly finding yourself in the apartment of a certain Merc with a Mouth when originally he was no more than a fictional character to you, you have to figure out how you're going to deal with becoming his new roommate. Shenanigans are abound. Perhaps even a little angst/drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Couch surfing

**Author's Note:**

> aLRIGHT SO THIS IS LIKE, MY FIRST ACTUAL THING??? SORT OF SERIOUS FIC THING THAT IM POSTING  
> i totally did this for giggles though and its kind of a self-indulgent thing but ive showed it off to a friend or two who wanted me to post it so whoops here i go
> 
> im gonna?? mostly probably keep the relationship platonic but if it goes romantic hey i doubt anyone is gonna argue 
> 
> also im so sorry if this is kind of ooc for DP or if there are typos aaa a a hhh,,, just fyi

The first time you wake up, it’s cold. It’s cold, and when you open your eyes and see dark wooden planks and turn your head and see chipped drywall, you don’t remember where you are. You don’t know where you are, really. Not completely.  
The room is dim, and whoever owns this place should seriously consider changing the light bulbs. When you move your fingers, you do it slowly and you can feel them creek under your skin, almost like it’s just been so long since they were last used. God damn if your head doesn’t hurt, and your hearing pushes back into your head like a hiss, and then a scream, and then...It’s fine, although your head still throbs a bit. You hear television static, and a voice from the kitchen. Although, this all considered, you can’t really tell who it is or what they’re saying. 

You sit up way too fast, and it feels like an ocean crashing in your head all at once, just as a hand suddenly pushes you back, though gently, to the couch. To the pillow. The hand is red. You move your own hand overtop of it and you can feel the divets underneath the fabric and when you look up, you recognize who that hand belongs to.  
Deadpool.

“Ah, hell. I thought you’d never wake up.” He says, though quieter than usual. Normally, everything that comes out of his mouth is fast, loud, vulgar, and perhaps mildly insulting.

All you can really do to reply is huff. There’s a weight on your chest from the exhaustion, and he was right to push you back down onto (probably) the only pillow he owns. 

“Look, I only know a little bit about you, kid. I don’t know where you came from exactly, or why you’re here, but WHILE you’re here, maybe we could have a friendly conversation over a platter of chimichangas?”

You blink at him, tiredly, and roll over. 

“I’ll... Take that as a no, for now.”

 

 

The second time you wake up, it’s far too warm and the sun is shining. You sit up slowly this time, and there’s no one to stop you. You do, however, hear someone snoring loudly in the room behind you. You don’t stand, not quite yet. First, you take your surroundings in. Kitchen door is open, all the way across the room (which appears to be the living room, of which you are sitting on the couch). Next, there’s a dog in the corner by what seems to be the bathroom and then there’s the typical bachelor’s throne right in front of you. Ripped up lazy-boy, a small television, both empty and half empty bags of potato chips and at least six different remote controls. 

 

You would also turn the television off, it being all static, but with so many remotes you have no clue just which one is the right one, and just which one could blow up a corporate building. 

Though, with the latter, you might get ice cream and a pat on the back out of the deal, if Deadpool had meant to do it anyway.  
You stretch, you yawn, and you stand. His bedroom door is open, and you see him curled up on an unkempt mattress with no sheets, pillow or blanket, still in his costume. Obviously, he won’t be up before noon and you (seemingly) have too much time on your hands. You still only barely have a clue where you are, and you’re damn sure it’s nowhere near home. 

So what do you decide to do with all of this free time? You decide, for once in your freeloading life, to clean. And clean you sure do. By the time afternoon comes, and Deadpool drags himself out of bed, you’ve already washed and put away all the dishes, cleaned the floor up and taken six trash bags out to the curb. Either he will be very angry, or very impressed. All things considered, he could even be both. 

He holds himself up on the door frame, and stares at you as you’ve set yourself down in his recliner with a book. 

Obviously, by the time you take notice of him, he seems to be about as exhausted as you were hours before. For once in his life, the Merc with a Mouth has nothing to say. Not even a word for you in his recliner. What does he do in this case? He drags himself over to the couch and flops down.

“...Remote.”

You don’t even look up from your book. 

“Which one, dear.”

This causes him to look up at you, with a mildly perplexed face. 

“What?” He says, now propping his head up on his hand. 

“Which one? I don’t live here.” You reply. You still don’t bother to look directly at him just yet. 

“No, the other part.”

“...Dear? It’s just a mannerism. Don’t worry about it.” You say as you flash him a glance from your book, wave dismissively with your free hand, and then you look back to your book. 

 

He makes grabby hands for one of the remotes, you still can’t tell which.

“Describe it.”

“What?”

“Remote.”

“The one with my face on it, you overgrown twinkie.” He groans. You look closely at the remotes, now, and see that they all have stickers on them. One has stickers of him, another with Wolverine, and so on. You do as he asks, and hand him the remote. For a moment, it looks as though, through his black-and-red mask, he’s considering turning the television off, or changing the channel, but he can’t find the energy in himself to do anything with the small piece of technology you just handed him. His arm falls, and he rests once more on the couch. 

Obviously, Deadpool is not a morning person. Au contraire, he is more than a night person. He thrives at night and tolerates the day, if barely. A kindred spirit of yours, you think, in this vein at least. He naps while you read, of course, for just an hour more, before he goes through his own (albeit odd) morning (no, afternoon) motions. 

He sits down on the couch once more, having had to relinquish his comfy, well-loved recliner to his impromptu guest.

And he stares at you. If you could see his eyes, you’d be sure he was glaring holes into your arm.

You close your book, and situate yourself so your body is directed towards him, giving the impression of full attention.

“Where am I, and how did I get here.” You ask just as he begins to open his mouth 

“You’re at my apartment, in my Game-Verse, and, swear to the holiest of chimichangas, no clue how you even got here. NO clue. None! Whatsoever. Why, do you? I just kinda found you outside my door.”

“If I had any idea as to how I got here, why would I ask you?”

“Because I’m Wade Wilson, and I know everything!” He says, taking about as much of a heroic pose as you could while sitting on a beat-up couch that looks like the 90s grunge scene threw up on it, died, and was patched over by someone with barely any sewing skills at all. Which, to be fair, probably was the case.

You sigh, and sigh deeply.

 

 

“So,” You try to recall, “Is this before or after the events of your game?”

“...You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Oh, honey. I know you’re crazy. I can just differentiate between what’s crazy-talk and what isn’t, at least for now. Now talk, Merc with a Mouth.”

“Alright, so, It all started here, yeah? And then I bombed High-Moon and then I got a script and scribbled all over it and tossed it, and then I went out to kill this media-bugle and-”

You cut him off. 

“Don’t bother going through the entire plot with me, I’m your player, I think, and I was right there with you. I just need to know if you already ran the game’s course. By the way, I thought the carnival game was very touching.”

“Touching... where?” He grinned. You could see it under his mask, and you sighed once again.

“Tugged my poor little heartstrings, darling, now-”

“Oooh, I know what you can tu-”

“Wade!” You shout at him. There’s the vulgar fast talker you know. 

“Alright, alright. This is post-game. Already ran High-moon’s course and all that blah-de-blah bullshit. Yeah? So technically nothing should be going on right now. Zap, boom, bam. Nothing. Black screen, everybody. GO HOME!” He cracks up at the end. 

You’re...Only slightly concerned? Really, you’re stuck living, for the time being, with an insane mercenary whose already started cracking dirty jokes at you. You should probably be extremely concerned for your well-being. I mean, if you’re this far away from home, who is going to be? Your mother? Fuck no. Deadpool? Debatable. He’s got three voices and none of them are always right. 

For the most part, you’re going to have to look after yourself, while also feeling pretty sympathetic towards and almost personally responsible for this immortal man-child. Because that’s who you are, and that’s what you do. You take everything into your own hands and somehow fuck it all up at the end. Hell, with a crazy regenerative maniac for a roommate, what’s the absolute worst that could happen? You die? You’re the player, reader, what have you. You’re...Pretty sure you can’t die. Though, it probably wouldn’t be wise to go and test that. 

.  
He’ll die? Practically impossible, unless some mystery organization pulls a cure out of their ass and kills him, in which case you’re probably out on the street unless he tells you or you figure out his pin numbers. Otherwise, you seem pretty set for the moment. Plus, any situation that comes your way living with him, be domestic or otherwise, you could probably handle. You’ve played tons and tons of video games before and not all of them were even alike, not to mention most of your free time spent, was spent at home for the fact that it was either too hot or too cold to go outside and do stuff. You’re pretty much set. 

 

While you were so deep in thought, Deadpool began ranting on and on about chimichangas and boob jokes, while probably not directed at you entirely, could definitely grant you the right to take offense. Which, for the fact that you were running all the possibilities of how this could work out through your mind, you didn’t really take much notice of. 

“So, how about we go out for a bite and chat some more? I’m pretty hungry and maybe we could kiss a couple guys, shoot a little bit.” He hums. You resist the urge to punch him, or yourself. Clearly you’re in a dream, and not a particularly good one.  
“Or switch what I just said around, it works both ways.” He smiles to himself. It seems he enjoys your company, being that you probably don’t cut him off as soon as Wolverine, or anyone else for that matter. 

Hell, you’re still in your late teenage years. You even find some of his jokes or inappropriate comments funny at times. You still know where to draw the line, though. However, the first order of business, is to have him clean all the alcohol out of the damn fridge and to go shopping for real groceries. Food may not be entirely important to him (chimichangas aside), but you need sustenance to survive, and hell if you aren’t going to milk living with a giant child for all it’s got. You’re going to buy all the shit your parents never would let you on your own, or with them. It’s going to be fucking amazing.

“Wade,” You begin. “Wade. Listen.”

“Hey, don’t pull that Navi shit on me, kid!” 

“First of all, I was just a little kid when that game came out, and I didn’t even play it until I was thirteen. Second, before we go anywhere, you need to clean out at least half the booze from your fridge and then fix the shelves. We’re going shopping for actual groceries.

This...Confused him. Obviously, and audiably from the sound he just made.

“But we have pancake stuff and a taco joint down the street! We’re set!” 

“No, Wade. We are not. That taco place is probably way more expensive than just getting the stuff yourself at the store, and I can make pancakes and tacos, myself. I’m just not eating it all the damn time.”

He pouted in an overly exaggerated manner, which you could tell because he had his lower lip show more far more prominently through his mask. It would be kind of adorable in any other situation than this one. Maybe.  
You crossed your arms. You weren’t going to budge on this, at least not very much.  
Finally, he sighed in resignation and stood up. 

“You probably already know I can’t get drunk, right?”

You nod.

“Well, there’s still a lot of booze in the fridge. You want some? I mean, not much. Don’t want you dying just yet, anyway!” He laughed. You...Couldn’t really tell if he was serious or not.

“Sure, I...Guess I could have a few. Not like I’m driving any time soon.” You shrug. 

He skips off into the kitchen (literally, like a small girl), and returns with as many bottles of alcohol as he could carry. Which, to be fair, had to be at least half the contents of the fridge. He sets them all down on the floor in front of the couch and then grabs three. Two for himself, and one for you, handing the one he’d just cracked open, to you.

He lifts his mask up just over his nose, and you can see his badly scarred neck, jaw and mouth. It was kind of cool, actually. Looked all spider-webby mixed in with a couple hundred small bruises at a time. Though, before you know it, he’s already drinking like a fiend. Chugging them down as fast as possible and then dropping the bottles on the carpet. Before you even finish half of your drink, he’s cleaned out half the pile.

“Hey, save some for me.” You speak up from behind the tinted glass, then going for another sip. He looks up from his own three drinks, all of which still in his mouth, and makes a slightly confused sound before removing them.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He chuckles. You shake your head and once you finish your first drink, you go for a second one. 

“Wait!” He shouts. “That one’s poison!” 

You must have given him the look of horror he was looking for, because he cracked up for a good couple minutes. 

“Just kidding. Technically, all alcohol is poison!” He said as he continued his laughing fit. You sigh and crack the bottle open. Doesn’t taste any different, to be sure.  
You don’t even feel buzzed by the time Deadpool downs the last of what he had brought out, and he doesn’t even seem as far as you are. Actually, he’s most definitely sober.

“...We should head out, soon.” You sigh. It’s late afternoon and if you hop in a car chances will be that you won’t even get back before 9pm due to rush hour. 

“Any place in walking distance?” You ask.

“Well, not any place I’m allowed to go anymore. I got banned from this place once for shoplifting ‘Back Massagers’. Back massagers! Ha! More like secret vibrators.” He laughs really hard, and you can’t help but laugh along with him.

“Alright, so...You mean to tell me you shoplifted a bunch of vibrators from multiple stores?”

“No, just the one. But it’s the only one thats close enough by walking.”

“...You have a teleporter.”

“Oh, that’s right! I could do that!” He said, standing up and kicking a bunch of bottles out of his way. “Come on, let’s go!” 

And he jumped out the window and onto the fire escape, clearly expecting you to follow.  
You grab the only coat he seems to own that doesn’t resemble his suit and follow him out onto the fire escape and into the rain. By the time you reach the roof, he’s already on the other side about to jump.

“Hey, get over here! You’re the one that wanted to go shopping. Like a girl.”

“Ah, sexist stereotype!”

“Oops, you caught me. Come on, though, else I’ll leave withoutcha!”

You sigh and jog over to his spot, and he throws an arm around your waist. You two hop from building to building using his teleporter, and eventually you reach your destination.  
A...Target? Really? Sure, they had groceries, but more often than not they were super expensive. Not to mention the temptation of the music and video game sections were too much for you to handle if you had your own money to blow. 

Which you don’t, not today. You have Wade’s money to blow. Which gives the same feeling as having your own money to blow, and this could possibly work out worse than you’d expected. You’re probably going to run off to video game and music land and go home with just that, and no food. Chimichangas, pancakes and beer for a week, anyone?

“How much cash do you have on you?” You ask him once you reach the ground, although he seems to forget his arm around your waist as you walk indoors. 

“Couple hundred. The rest is under my mattress. Shh!” He giggles. “Oh, oops. Didn’t mean to tell you that.”

You shake your head and continue on into the store with him, and once you’re at the carts you remember exactly where his arm was, and you notice where it is now.

“Deadpool, if you don’t remove your hand from my ass, I’ll put it in a blender and make you drink it.”

Surprisingly, and without further questioning, he obliges and places both hands behind his head. 

You grab a cart, remove your jacket and place it over the handle bar, and with the resistance you’re sure it would take to pull a spaceship away from the gravitational pull of the sun, you head off towards the grocery aisles rather than video games. 

You do find it odd, however, that rather than walk beside you, Deadpool walks a few feet behind you.  
And then you don’t. You can’t really do much about it, though besides send him off to grab a few things while you search for whatever else is on your mental list. This, however, would probably be a terrible idea. Either someone would die, he would destroy that particular section of goods, or he would grab the wrong thing, more than likely replacing that thing with pancakes or chimichangas. Or beer. Can’t forget the beer.

So for now you tolerate him following you around from five feet back, gathering what you can for dirt cheap to stay within the budget of ‘A Couple Hundred’.  
By the time your cart is full, it’s almost time for the store to close. You could either run from the back of the store now, or...

“Wade?”

“Hm?”

“Could you teleport us and the cart to the front of the store to check out?”

“Oh, five steps behind you, babe. Already in the check out lane here!” He laughed. He was probably itching to say something like that for the past half hour while you gathered an item here and there.

“Seriously. Can you or can’t you?”

“Sure can!” He said, running up behind you, and before you knew it you were already towards the front of the store. A few seconds for the teleporter to recharge, and you were in front of some old woman in the checkout lane.

“Wade!” You hissed. “Move us back a space, this isn’t fair!”

“Life ain’t fair, babe. I coulda told you that.”

With that, you punch him in the gut. Really hard. He heaves, and then teleports you two behind the old woman, cart and all.

“Thank you, Wade.”

He replies with a strained, “Uh-huh...”

 

 

On your way out, you make him carry the majority of the groceries while holding onto his arm so the teleporter moves you too. He’s strong, but 80 lbs worth of groceries could probably knock the Batman out. He crawls into the window, and then sets all of the groceries on top of the couch, himself flopping down onto his beloved recliner.  
The least you could do at this point is put away the groceries. After all, it’s not like you cleaned the entire kitchen, living room, and part of his bedroom today before he even woke up. You give an over exaggerated sigh as you heft the bags all into the kitchen, and put away their contents while Deadpool flicks through television channels.

 

“Come on!” You hear him shout from the other room. “Six channels and nothing to watch? I feel cheated! I should go and shoot the guy who keeps playing reruns of Full House all night. Worst 90s sitcom ever. Of all time!”

Once you’re finished, you’re exhausted. You drag yourself to the couch and flop down. You’re also pretty sure Wade is trying to talk to you, but you can’t honestly be bothered to listen at this point. Some payback might be in the cards for him not helping you out with putting everything away. Though, you are glad that there’s something else to eat and drink besides beer, spoiled milk, and of course, chimichangas.


	2. ~~Intermission~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Sorry I haven't really been on this for awhile but I just kinda didn't really feel like writing very much. I did however have some other little oneshots saved up so I'll use those for little intermission pieces when I need to upload but don't have much on the fic itself.  
> I'll do another actual chapter soon-ish though!! Promise. u w u
> 
> sorry it's so short!!! and also not exactly relevant in the fic's current timeline, this thing happens a lil later.
> 
> btw do feel free to leave comments and little critiques u w u  
> make suggestions for intermissions, also! I'm fairly open to requests.

“...You know what’s funny?” Wade asks, sprawled out across his recliner watching the television, not even bothering to look at you.

As you lay on the couch, you look up from the small laptop you’d bought with some money you split with Wade on one of the jobs you’d had together. You’ve only done three or so, of course, but you’re more keen on saving your cash than he is. If he’d saved up, he could probably even go for a bigger, nicer apartment. He’d told you the reason why he didn’t is because that might put a bigger target on your backs than you already have, which is fine, but you’re pretty sure it’s because he can’t stop buying new arms and munitions. Also fine. A bit nonsensical, but fine. You know very well who your roommate is.

“What is, Wade?”

“When you stick two swords in a guy’s neck and you do the daisy-pop. That’s like, one of my favorite things!”

“Apart from boobs?” You say, looking back to your laptop.

“Well...Maybe. Yeah, I think it’s one of my favorite things. Boobs are up there, though.”


	3. Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool proposes that you go along with him on a job. It...Doesn't go well, to say the very least. DP is just happy to have his roomie be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAYYYYYYYYY CHAPTER 2 FINALLY RIGHT GUYS
> 
> chapters probably aren't going to be the 9 page monsters like chapter 1 was from now on, but whatever right?? idk  
> here u go bubbies

Three months had passed with no real progress on finding a way home, not that you really cared at this point, anyway. Your family was probably looking for you, or else they’d already given up ages ago. You don’t know, and you can’t honestly be bothered enough to care. You had a decent family life and all, but right now you had to focus on the mercenary who had become a larger part of your life than you’d planned. Actually, you never really planned any of this at all! This was all some kind of fluke, more than likely. Some mad scientist probably zapped you here on accident.

Again though, not like you could be bothered to care very much. Wade has enough different kinds of games both board and console to keep you occupied, many a musical record or CD and comic books galore. It’s like living with a large teenage boy, or an adult who can’t grow up. The latter though, is probably the actual case. 

Speaking of Wade, he seemed to just be in-and-out of the apartment, more often than not. No wonder it was such a mess before you moved in, he only stays for a short period of time and then tells himself he’ll clean it up later. When you showed up, he just seemed to be on a particularly long break before taking his next job, and once you’d been settled in for about a week, he up and left in the middle of the night having pinned a note to your shirt.

‘Gotta go to work, see ya in a couple of weeks, kiddo!’  
With a mark on it that resembled a kiss in red lipstick. You’ve never found any sort of lipstick or makeup tools in his house, and you don’t own any just yet, so you have to wonder where he got it. Though, as promised, he came home a few weeks after having left. You asked him how his trip was, he said that he had fun. Which...Also probably should have worried you more than it did? He’s a mercenary who can’t die and loves his job. You have no idea if he’ll turn on you in the middle of the night like some kind of rabid dog, but dirty jokes and legitimately creepy comments on blood and things aside, he...Isn’t all bad?

Otherwise, you spent most of your time watching movies, reading, gaming or hanging out with Wade when he hasn’t teleported off to some job somewhere on the other side of the planet, yet. All in all, not bad. He isn’t even such a bad roommate when you threaten to hide or toss the pancake stuff. He makes at least a small effort to help keep the apartment clean, and you had him take you to home depot for drywall patcher and paint. With some frustration and a huge mess, you were able to fix it with the help of your sort-of-friendly-neighborhood-mercenary. The rest of the problems you had with this situation at first eventually worked themselves out, that or you fixed it behind Wade’s back and he didn’t take much notice. Or he did, and made a note to kill you for it later. You could never tell with that man.

 

Speaking (or thinking) of, he walks out into the living room trying to speak to you through a mouthful of food. Cereal, maybe? Good to know he can eat things other than chimichangas and pancakes.

“Wade. Chew, then swallow, then talk.” You say, looking up at him from your paused handheld game.

He does so, and then flops down onto the couch right with you, putting his arm around your shoulder.

“So kid, wanna come with me on my next mission? Should be a pretty small deal. Just for some pocket change. Couple grand? I’ll split it with you.”

You look up at him with something between confusion and wonder. Of course you’d asked him if you could tag along once or twice before, all questions either met with some dismissive quip or an outright argument. He cares, sure. You’re just not sure if it’s for you, or for the sentiment of you having been his player, once upon a time.

“So, Yes? No? Chimichangas? Tacos?” He laughed. 

“You know what?” You start, pressing your index finger into his chest. “Sure fuckin’ thing. May as well, right?” Accepting this offer almost feels like you’ve agreed to a bet. A bet that you can stay alive helping Deadpool himself out with his mercenary work. 

 

\-----

Your first job was an absolute disaster.

When you inhale, you can feel your ribs creaking. Cracked, but not broken. Not yet. Your ears are ringing, and your face feels wet with both blood and sweat. Your own, you presume. The one time Deadpool takes you out with him on a job, and it’s the one time you get ambushed by some goons. 

Said goons, of course, already having thought you down for the count and out of the fight with a knife twisted at least three times in your gut and a kick or two to your skull, leaving you be to take care of the more prominent threat. Slowly, you move your arm. Still works. You take the knife out of your stomach and drop it onto the concrete of the parking garage floor.

Your hearing comes back to you, and you can tell that Deadpool is still fighting the baddies off right behind you. You sit up slowly, and you can feel your bone and flesh knit back together. So that’s what it feels like? It feels like television static in the marrow, and in your flesh where it comes back together. Guess you know now that you probably could do most things that he can do. You were his player, after all. You’re in his world now and considering you don’t exactly know how to fight yet, the whole healing factor is a handy thing. Sighing, you wipe your face off with your gloved palms. Gloves? Ah, that’s right. He had a suit made for you, almost identical to his own. 

As you stand, you hear your knees creek and snap back into place, and you wobble a bit. Turning, you see Deadpool shove a knife into some guy’s eye socket.

“You...You’re alive!” He shouts, and then laughing he rams right into you, wrapping you in a tight embrace that threatens to crack your ribs again.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Wilson.” You say, voice both feeling and sounding rough. “Guess I have that healing factor after all.”

“Guess so.” He adds with a pat to your shoulder that almost brings you back to your knees. You hold yourself up on his arm, still breathing rather heavily.

“Oh, yeah. I guess a knife to your gut for the first time’ll do that. Come on, let’s go home. They can send us a check tomorrow.” Deadpool says as he puts your arm around his neck. He leads you back to the car you were going to use to escape, and sets you down in the back seat.

“You’ll be fine.”


	4. ~~Intermission 2~~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Deadpool are sent out on another job and boy is your luck not very good. You end up buried alive. How 'bout that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYY I WROTE THIS WHEN I WAS SICK BUT I STILL THINK IT'S PRETTY GOOD
> 
> the first reference is more obvious than that tombstone pizza billboard but can u name the second one

Being buried alive gives you a lot of time to think. I mean, it’s not as if you could die, anyhow. Wicked healing factor and all. A wicked healing factor that isn’t even yours, really. It belongs to your roommate. You still have no real idea how this works. You’d suggested that perhaps you were a mutant who, when near others with powers and the like, absorbed residual energy from them and bolstered it so that you could use them yourself.

Were this true, however, you would probably be busting the fuck out of this satin-and-oak container, considering the mutant you were sent to hit had the ability to throw fireballs and shit like that. Blowback you could worry about later, but right now you needed to get out of here. 

Your phone, however, began to vibrate in one of the pouches on your belt. You retrieved it, and answered.

“Yeah, hello, little busy, here.” You said, giving the coffin lid a kick.

“Ay, kid, that you?” The familiar voice on the other line asked. 

“Well, obviously.” You replied with no small bite.

“Okay, just keep me on the line and I’ll try and find you. Goddamn writers, making it so hard to find a shallow fucking grave.”

“We were in a cemetery. People do die a lot, especially when you show up.”

“I know, right?! Ain’t I just a doll.”

“You’d be a helluva lot easier to deal with some days if that were true.”

A few more minutes of silence as Deadpool kept searching for you. You counted thirty before there was tapping and eventually bashing on the coffin lid. 

“Hey, hey. If you get all the dirt up then you can just open it. No need to chop me the fuck in half just yet.”

“Nah, honey. We’ll get to the impalement later.” He said, phone between his shoulder and cheek. You could tell he was smiling.

You sighed, and checked the lid for weight. Deadpool hopped off of the coffin and up onto higher ground. 

“Mon sauvage coeur.” He said as he offered you his hand. You swatted it away and clambered up and out of the coffin, yourself.

“I am not your savage heart, Wade. Nice touch with the french, though.”

“I thought you liked the Addams Family.”

“You added the heart bit.”

“I know. I thought it would make more sense.”

“Making sense doesn’t matter right now. We need to take care of-”

“Oh, already done. He tried to get the jump on me but I caught him with a good shotgun blast.”

You peeked over Deadpool’s shoulder to see the evidence. The body, or, most of it, was slumped against a mausoleum. The concrete or stone smattered with blood and bits of organ and bone. You nodded, almost impressed. And then you remembered that from a more moral standpoint, you really shouldn’t be.

Well, that’s what living with a certifiably insane mercenary will do to you after a while.

You sighed, shrugged and then began walking towards your ride. Luckily, what had happened was not loud enough to wake the dead. It was, however, loud enough to wake the cops. You should really be leaving now.

“Tell us about it, Janet!” Wade shouted. 

You...Weren’t sure why? Who was Janet? Whatever. Not important. You continued on. This was a long night and the only nap you want to take doesn't involve dirt.


	5. Daydreams and Day Jobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're bored when you're not out on a mission, and understandably so.   
> And thus, you are led to get yourself a fucking day job.  
> Nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, no DP in this chapter!!! I promise though, next time ; o ;
> 
> BUT HEY, PLOT EXPANSION. And who knows, maybe some other marvel babes will show up to sweep you off your feet? B )
> 
> also i know its just two pages but!! yea. hopefully ill have a bigger update for u guys another time

Once you figured out it was practically impossible to do any long-term damage to yourself practicing with live arms and unsheathed swords, learning how to use them properly got a lot easier. That’s not to say you didn’t hurt yourself, or you didn’t avoid trying to. You did try to avoid slipping up putting your sword back in your sheath, and you did wind up stabbing yourself in the neck. Not such a huge deal with a healing factor now, but it still fucking stung.

It was almost a year since you’d started living- and working with Deadpool. It’d been almost a year since you... Woke up, not in your bedroom. Woke up with someone there, instead of alone, in your bed.

Wade almost considered moving out of the shitty apartment you two both currently called your dwelling, your home base, other synonyms for where someone goes to sleep every once in a while. Not because of you, but with you. So you could quit couch-surfing, or just sleeping in his bed when he was out on a solo. I mean really, you could take care of the deposit what with all that cash you rake in from missions, and how much you save not needing to pay rent or electricity. 

Today, however, was a lazy one. Wade was out on a solo mission, and you were stuck... At home. You didn’t really think of it until now, but not having anything to do during the day like school or work left you... Really, really bored. You didn’t even feel like gaming. That, now that was sad.

You tried reading, tried TV, tried listening to Wade’s vast collection of records (and you never pegged him before as liking MCR, or Fall Out Boy), and you tried... Other activities that would be inadvisable to relinquish facts about to kiddies. Still, you’d only been awake for around three or so hours and nothing appealed to you.

And then you had a thought. You, right now, are stuck in the fucking marvel universe. There’s superhero shit going on around every corner, and you, my dearest, might as well be a mutant. You could hook up with a young Magneto via time travel, you could fuck Raven Darkholme if you had the charisma, you could befriend Captain America if you tried hard enough. The world is a literal oyster.

Too bad you’re allergic to shellfish, so maybe we should start out simple, dear reader.

You pull on your favorite sweatshirt, some dark jeans and sneakers. You were going to pull an application for the local coffee shop. Cliche, I know, but if it was anything to pass the time at this point, you’d fucking do it. You had some energy to burn, and no one to burn it on. Or with. Really, you’d lived here for a year and your only friend was a psychopath with a sense of humor. 

 

You walked out the door and sidled past the local crack-whore, Janey. She always tried to hit you up for cigs, and this time was no different. You pretended to listen to your music and continued on your way. Praise be to headphones. Down the stairs, out the door, check your keys and you continued down the street. The shop was just a block away, so it never took long for you to obtain your dark, liquidy overlord. 

You entered, fidgeting with the strings from your hood as you walked up to the counter. You were greeted by a pretty young thing with short, red hair and a smile that could last for days. Her nametag ran ‘Brenna’. 

“Hi! What can we get you, today?”

“Same thing we do every day, Brenna. A hot beverage of some sort.” 

“Thanks, Syd. Love the input.”

“No problem, lovely.”

You couldn’t help but snicker at the banter between the two. They must be close friends. 

“Anyway, what would you like?” Brenna grinned.

You shrugged and ordered your hot drink of preference. As well as intending to add onto that application question.

“Uh... I was wondering though. Do you guys have any paper applications here?”

Brenna turned around after she bounded off to help Syd make drinks. She rolled back up as soon as she had your drink.

“Oh, yeah! Here’s your drink, and...” She ducked under the counter, pulling out a small folder of papers. “These. Just fill them out and bring them in tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“Cool, thanks.” You said, reciprocating her smile.

That’s just what you would do, come tomorrow. Finally, you’d have a day job to keep you occupied. It was a comfort, in a way. Some semblance of normality returning to your ever-active life.

Plus, you’d always wanted to be the hot barista.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also wanted to say I'm so sorry for such a late update, I just had all the inspiration for this fic sucked out of me through my face because life decided to punch it, not to mention I have school and a job to deal with, now. Never fear, I love you darlings and I will try and keep up with this more often!! 
> 
> I also wanna thank all the people giving me kudos and commenting and just generally loving the fic. This is the first fic I ever posted, so it means a lot to me that you guys like it so much. ; u ;


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